Space Station 1
I recognized two of the women who had come out of the ladies' lounge,
but I couldn't even be sure of that. One of the two denied ever having
stepped inside the lounge, and the other was vague about it."
"I see."
"The captain really sailed into me for a moment, lost his temper
completely. 'A fine officer you are, Lieutenant. It's painful to be
on the same ship with the kind of officers the training schools turn
out when the Station finds itself short of personnel. Is the Station
planning to trust ships' clearance to hallucinated personnel?
"'All right, you talked to a girl--some girl. She didn't even tell you
she was Ramsey's daughter; Clakey told you. And he's dead. Not only
is he dead, he wasn't listed on the passenger list as Clakey at all.
His name was Henry Ewers. I don't know what you believed, Lieutenant.
I don't care what you think you saw. You tangled with someone and he
stabbed you. _He_ was real enough ... obviously the man who killed
Ewers. But you let him get away, so even that isn't too much to your
credit.'"
"If I had been you," the kid said, "I've had knocked him down."
"No." For the first time Corriston smiled. "To tell you the truth, the
captain is a good guy. He's one of those blunt, moody, terribly human
individuals you encounter occasionally, men who speak their minds on
all occasions and are instantly sorry they did. You have to like them
even when they seem to insult you."
"He made up for it then?"
"I'll say he did. He knew that when we landed the officials would be
breathing right down my neck. He wanted to give me every chance. So he
kept the officials away from me until I'd convinced myself Ramsey's
daughter just couldn't be on board.
"He let me look at every piece of luggage that was taken off the ship.
He had some cargo to unload and he let me inspect that too, every
crate. Most of the crates were too small to conceal a drugged and
unconscious girl--or any girl for that matter. The ones that weren't,
he opened for me and let me look inside.
"He let me watch every passenger leave the ship. Then, when all of
the passengers had left, he stationed officers in the three main
passageways and I went through the ship from bow to stern. I went into
every stateroom and into every intership compartment. No one could
have kept just a little ahead of me or behind me, dodging back into a
compartment the instant I'd vacated it. They would have been instantly
spotted by one of the officers.
"The Captain wasn't to blame at all for what happened later ... when I
tried to convince the commanding officers here that I was completely
sane."
"I see. He must have really liked you."
"I guess he did. And I liked him."
The kid nodded. "And the murderer's still at large. That makes it rough
for the sixty odd passengers they're holding in quarantine. How long do
you think they'll hold them in the Big Cage?"
"As long as they can. They'll keep them under close guard and increase
their vigilance every time there's a suspicious move in the cage.
They'll be screened perhaps a dozen times. But most of them are
influential people. Most of them have booked passage on the Mars' run
liner that's due here next week. They can't hold them forever. They'd
start pulling wires on Earth by short wave and there'd be a legislative
uproar.
"Suppose they refuse to let them send messages?"
"They won't refuse. I'm sure of that."
The kid was thoughtful for a moment. Then he said: "Tell me more about
Ramsey. Just what do you think is happening on Mars?"
"No one knows exactly what is happening," Corriston said. "But to the
best of my knowledge the overall picture is pretty ugly. The original
settlers have their backs to the wall with a vengeance. Now there are
armed guards at their throats. Ramsey has taken over. He has resorted
to legal trickery to freeze them out.
"There are perhaps fifty important uranium claims on Mars and Ramsey
has consolidated all of the holdings into a single major enterprise. To
say that he's cornered the market in uranium would be understating the
case. He has taken possession by right of seizure, and the colonists
can't get to him. They're living a hand-to-mouth existence while he
lives in a heavily guarded stronghold behind three miles of electrified
defenses."
The kid nodded again. "Yes, that's the picture when you unscramble
it, I guess. But most of it is kept hidden from the general run of
tourists."
"Naturally. Ramsey has the power to keep it under wraps."
"Do you think the colonists had anything to do with Clakey's murder
and Miss Ramsey's disappearance? Or I guess I should say Henry Ewers'
murder."
"Clakey, Ewers--his name doesn't matter. I'm convinced that he was Miss
Ramsey's bodyguard."
"But you haven't answered my question."
"I can't answer it with any certainty. Did the colonists hire a killer
and book passage for him on the ship? It's difficult to believe that
the kind of men who colonized Mars would resort to murder."
"But there are a few scoundrels in every large group of men. And what
if they became so desperate they felt they had to fight fire with fire?"
"Yes, I'd thought of that. It may be the answer."
5
A half-hour later the kid was taken away and Corriston found himself
completely alone. There are few events in human life more unnerving
than the totally unexpected removal of a sympathetic listener when dark
thoughts have taken possession of a man.
The kid wasn't forcibly removed from the cell. He left without
protesting and no rough hands were laid on him, no physical violence
employed. But he was not at all eager to leave, and if the guards who
came for him had eyed him less severely, his attitude might have been
the opposite of complacent.
"Sorry, kid," one of them said. "Your discharge has been postponed.
Somebody on the psycho-staff wants to give you another test. I guess
you didn't interpret the ink blots right."
He looked at Corriston and shook his head sympathetically. "It's tough,
I know. Once you're here waiting to be released can wear you down. I
shouldn't be saying this, but it stands to reason it might even slow
up your recovery a bit. It's easy to blame the docs, but you've got to
try to understand their side of it. They have to make sure."
When the door clanged shut behind the kid, Corriston crossed to his
cot, sat down, and cradled his head in his arms. The fact that he was
still free to go outside and walk around the Station was no comfort
at all. That kind of freedom could be worse than total confinement.
He could never hope to escape from observation. The guards were under
orders to watch him, and wherever he turned there'd be eyes boring into
the back of his neck.
On Earth a man under surveillance could duck quickly into a side
street, run and weave about, and emerge on a broad avenue in the midst
of a crowd. He could walk calmly then for a block or two, and turn in
at a bar. He could drown his troubles in drink.
There were bars on the Station, of course. But Corriston knew that if
he tried to mingle with officers of his own rank on the upper levels,
he'd quickly enough find himself drinking alone. He could picture the
off-duty personnel edging quickly and resentfully away from him, as
though he'd suddenly appeared in their midst with a big, yawning hole
in his skull.
Suddenly utter weariness overcame Corriston. He loosened his belt,
elevated his legs, and relaxed on the cot.
He was asleep almost before he could close his eyes. How long he
slept he had no way of knowing. He only knew that he was awakened by
a sound--the strangest sound a man could hear in space. It was as if
a gnat or a mosquito had developed a sudden, avaricious liking for
his blood-type and was determined to gorge itself to bursting at his
expense.
The buzzing seemed to go on interminably as he hovered between sleeping
and waking. On and on and on, with absolutely no letup. Then, abruptly,
it ceased. There was a faint swishing sound and something solid thudded
into the hardwood directly above him.
With a startled cry Corriston leapt from the cot, caught the iron edge
of the bed-guard to keep from falling, and stared up in horror at the
shining expanse of wall space overhead.
The cell was in almost total darkness. But from the barred window
opposite, a faint glimmer of light penetrated in a diffuse arc, just
enough light to enable him to make out the quivering stem of the barb.
It _was_ a barb. This was so beyond any possibility of doubt. It had
lodged in the hardwood scarcely a foot above his cot and it was still
quivering.
Cold sweat broke out on Corriston's palms as he realized how close
death had come, and how almost miraculous had been his escape. Had he
raised himself to slap at the "mosquito" the barb could just as easily
have buried itself in his skull.
Corriston hesitated for an instant, his eyes on the barred window and
the faint glow beyond. Then his gaze passed to the wall switch. He
decided against switching on the light immediately. He stooped low and
moved quickly to the window, taking care to keep his head well below
the sill.
For a moment he listened, his every nerve alert. There was no stir of
movement in the darkness beyond the sill, nothing at all to indicate
that someone was crouching there.
Finally, with an almost foolhardy recklessness, he raised his head and
stared out between the bars. He could see right across to the wall
opposite. The wall was less than eight feet away, and the space between
the wall and his cell appeared to be unoccupied. This did not surprise
him.
It was utterly silly to think that a man intent on willful murder would
have lingered for any great length of time in so narrow a space. After
having shot his bolt, his immediate concern would have been to get away
as quickly as possible.
No, definitely, the man was gone, and if he had more barbs to release
he would choose another time and place.
Even then Corriston did not switch on the light. He had no particular
desire to examine the wood-embedded barb in a bright light. He could
see it clearly enough from where he stood. It was exactly like the barb
which had sealed the lips of that blabbermouth Clakey.
Corriston went back to his cot and sat down. He told himself it would
be highly dangerous to leave the cell and give the killer another
chance. He had saved himself by refusing to slap a non-existent
mosquito. But in the shadows of the Station there would be no
mosquitoes--non-existent or otherwise. The killer would simply crouch
in shadows, await his chance, and take careful aim.
What he had to do was find Miss Ramsey, and prove his sanity. If he
stayed in the cell, the shadows would continue to deepen about him,
would become intolerable, and perhaps even drive him to the verge of
actual madness.
He had to convince the killer that he couldn't be silenced easily and
perhaps not at all.
Corriston stood up. He ran his hands down his body, taking pride in its
muscular solidity, its remarkable integrity under strain. He still felt
lithe and confident; his physical vitality was unimpaired.
He had really known all along that he would be leaving the cell. On
Earth you could dodge into a narrow alley between tall buildings
or lean on a stroller platform and be carried underground so fast
that your pursuers would be left blank-faced. If he stayed alert he
could do the same thing on the Station, even though there were no
moving pavements to leap upon. Quite possibly he could even slip out
unnoticed. They might not even be watching the cell door because he
had behaved himself so well up to now. Psycho-cases were permitted to
roam, but if they stayed in their cells precautions would naturally be
relaxed in their favor.